Push or Pull
by MrSpockify
Summary: Post-Reichenbach Fall. John can't take it anymore, and wants to kill himself. A welcome surprise changes his mind.


**Notes: **This story is rated T for triggers, so please don't read if you think it'll trigger anything.

I don't own Sherlock, sadly. If I did, Johnlock would totally be a major part of the show. Just sayin'.

Anyway, hope you enjoy this. It's my very first Sherlock fic, so I hope I did the show justice, and any comments (positive or negative) are completely welcome. I just hope I wrote the characters well, and if you have any suggestions, please let me know. Thank you! :)

* * *

John found himself standing on the rooftop of a tall building, his toes barely peering over the edge and his arms out to steady himself. He wasn't sure exactly how or when he had gotten there, but he knew why.

He wanted to die.

It just wasn't worth the agony anymore. The getting up early in the morning to find himself in a quiet, empty home. The sitting alone and waiting for hours on end, hoping and praying that something interesting would make itself present. The endless stream of images of a bloodied and lifeless Sherlock that bombarded his vision every time he closed his eyes to blink. All of it had to stop, and this was the only way to ensure that it would.

His heart skipped a beat when the breeze picked up, pressing gently but persistently against his back, threatening to push him over. He wanted to jump off, to end all of the madness, but at the same time the very thought of it made his gut wrench painfully. Just the idea of jumping off made him picture Sherlock as he fell down, his arms out like he was ready to be carried to safety by the wind. But he wasn't swept up; he just fell, excruciatingly slowly, to the imminent stop as he hit the ground. John could still hear the loud, echoing crack as he hit the pavement. It made him sick.

"Well," he started shakily, looking up at the sky. "Here I am, right where you were. Is this how you felt?" He closed his eyes, breathing in and out slowly. "Because it would really be helpful if you explained to me what this feeling is." It was harder than he expected, the whole Ending-his-life thing. There was a sensation coiled in his stomach, somewhere between excitement, dread, and sorrow. He was acutely aware of how easily he could slip and fall off the edge, and he wasn't sure whether he was terrified or relieved that it was so simple. Shouldn't he be glad?

John chuckled, but it sounded like a choked sob. "I bet this was easier for you," he muttered, opening his eyes. "No fear. No hesitation." He swallowed hard and ventured to look down, and his heart pounded when he caught a glimpse of the pavement. He looked back up, trying to breathe less erratically. "Mind over matter, right? Yeah… You were always better at that than me. I mean, look at me," he coughed out another chuckle, "I'm standing right where you… And here I am, crying." He wiped his cheek with a palm, then quickly spread his arms back out to balance again. "You'd be ashamed."

He smiled, then, because he would. Sherlock would have a heyday chiding him for crying before he killed himself. He'd probably say something about how it contrasted sharply with the fact that he wanted to end his life so badly. "You'd be right, you know. I wasn't even really sure about this." He looked down again, focusing on the spot he assumed he would hit while trying to ignore the vertigo. "No turning back now, though."

John gulped painfully and breathed in deeply, though he wasn't ready to jump yet. There was still a nagging reluctance and the back of his mind, and it refused to let go. "You left a note," he said, at this point just talking to waste time. "You let someone know what was going to happen next. It took me a while to catch on," he smiled sadly, "but it was a note nonetheless. Nobody's going to know about me, or that I'm even up here. Nobody's going to hear my last words. Hell," he ran his hands down his face, trying to compose himself, "nobody's even going to care."

John glimpsed down, his breath hitching. He could picture the body, limp and broken and bleeding out even though he was already dead. He could picture himself there, too, equally as gory and lifeless. "Oh, God," he whispered, feeling his stomach tighten with fear. "I love you so much, Sherlock. I'm sorry."

John scrunched his eyes shut and tried to keep his chest from heaving from the effort of breathing steadily. His hands trembled at his sides, and his legs felt like jelly, making him certain he would stumble over the edge by accident instead of jumping off like he had planned. Hesitantly, his foot scooted forward, over the edge, and he felt the hard rooftop disappear, leaving behind nothing to hold his weight.

"I would care."

No. No no no… That voice. John's heart stopped and his eyes grew wide. He pulled his foot back in slowly and stepped back from the ledge, nearly falling on his ass like an idiot. When he turned, John had to put both hands over his mouth to stifle a sob, and he bent over, helpless. That was impossible; he had seen it with his own eyes. Sherlock was dead. His face was bloodied and pale with death. He had hit the ground. Hard. He was _dead_.

But there he was. There he _bloody_ was, in the living flesh. His curly hair was swept to one side as the breeze tugged at it, and his face was smooth, completely clear of crimson blood. His pale gray eyes were calm, and he was wearing his coat and scarf, as if it was any other normal day.

There was Sherlock Holmes, once dead, but back again. He should have known.

"Sherlock…" He was speechless, and could only stand there, eyes wide and mouth agape, unable to say anything. After a moment, he blinked and somewhat gained back his composure. "How much of that did you hear?" John almost blushed when he remembered the things he had said, but he didn't have time, because now Sherlock was running to him. Without a second thought, the two embraced each other in a tight hug, John burying his face in Sherlock's chest and trying not to cry.

He was about to jump. He was completely ready to take that step off the ledge and end it all. He would have done it, too, if Sherlock hadn't said anything. The consulting detective would have been watching his only friend take that one step and plummet down to the ground. He would have heard that sickening smack of bone on pavement, just like John had heard before. He would be dead.

"Sherlock," he muttered from where his scarf was sort of suffocating him. He didn't care, though. He just wanted to be close to him.

"Yeah?" he replied, and John realized he was crying. When he looked up, he saw tears streaming down the detective's face, bending and swerving around sharp cheekbones. His eyes were rimmed red, but he smiled slightly in his direction.

"You're alive," John stated.

"Yeah."

"You didn't actually commit suicide."

"Nope."

"You were never dead."

"Correct."

John paused for a moment, pulling back so he could straighten Sherlock's coat. He closed his eyes and shook his head, feeling absolutely ecstatic. "I'm going to kill you." They both smiled, and Sherlock even laughed, the skin around his pale eyes crinkling.

"I'm sorry," the detective said.

"You'd better be," he replied, though he was just happy Sherlock was alive so he could murder him. He pulled him close again, smelling his coat, which smelt of cigarettes, mint, and freshly brewed tea. Sherlock was alive. He was right here, living and moving about just like before. He smiled beneath the cloth, unable to control himself. He was in Sherlock Holmes's arms, and he had never felt so alive in his entire life.


End file.
